When I got there, I was surprised to see Mick's new motorcycle parked at the foot of our stairs. The sleek black Yamaha was a coming-of-age statement of sorts, as Charlene and Ricky had adamantly refused to buy him one for his high school graduation present, and Mick loved it almost as much as his PowerBook. My sister was still upset about him buying it—somehow she blamed me, presumably for paying him a good enough salary that he could afford it—but once Mick passed the appropriate safety courses, Ricky had conceded it was good transportation. And I'd benefited from the purchase, because the prospect of riding the bike the few blocks down the Embarcadero from the condo he leased had made him my most prompt employee.
When I tapped on his office door, my nephew called, “Friend or foe?” without taking his eyes off the computer screen.
“Depends on how you feel about taking on some extra work on a Saturday.”
“Oh, hell, I thought you were Sweet Charlotte.”
“Nope, it's just me—about to complicate your life. What're you working on, that hidden-assets case?”
“Yeah, I've about got it wrapped up. We'll be going to the Boondocks for lunch on Monday.”
“Great. I love their steak sandwiches. Let's take Charlotte along. Speaking of her, where is she while you're slaving away?”
“Hot on the trail of a client who's weird.”
“Jeffrey Stoddard. She tell you what's wrong with him?”
“Nope.” Mick swiveled to face me, his face earnest and somewhat perplexed. “You know, when I first came to work for you, I thought the business was glamorous and cool, but I never figured out till recently how … addicting it is. I mean, Lottie and I could be snuggled up in bed watching rotten Saturday-afternoon horror movies on TV and eating popcorn right now. But instead I'm ruining my eyesight in this stuffy office and she's off God knows where in the rain.”
“And you both love it.”
“So do you, or you wouldn't be here.”
“Well, Hy's not in town, so snuggling isn't an option. You want to tell me what you've got?” I motioned at the computer.
“Documentation of money in a tax-dodge account in the Caymans—in the guy's girlfriend's name. And a down payment on a condo on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman— again in the babe's name.”
“You can prove that the funds moved from his account to hers?”
“I can prove it—thanks to Lottie. She's got contacts at financial institutions all over the place.”
“Then we'll definitely take her along to lunch. And I'll see your report on Monday. In the meantime, d’ you want to take on something else?”
“Sure, what?”
“The Vintage Lofts building on Beale Street. I need to get as many particulars as possible on each person who's bought a unit there.”
“Easy. I'll do a search by site address and have it to you within the hour. Which case file do I allocate the time to?”
“None. This is personal.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And private.”
Seventeen people had been foolish enough to purchase live-work units at the lofts; nine were women, and their names were not familiar to me. The database gave their current addresses, but three were post office boxes, and it would take time to check out the remaining six for resemblance to the woman. Time, and transportation.
At a little before three I asked Mick to drop me off at All-Foreign Motors in the Mission district. Eager to show off his bike, which I'd yet to be given a ride on, he agreed, but drove there with the kind of exaggerated caution he'd have employed if it was my mother on the seat behind him. I'd have liked to think this was because he wanted to protect the one who signed his paychecks, but I suspected otherwise and kept wishing he'd do something outrageous to reassure me he didn't consider me that old and fragile.
Bennie, my regular mechanic, was just closing the MG's hood when I stepped into the garage. “Hey, Sharon,” he said, “that rebuilt engine's in great shape. Was worth the money, even though you accused us of highway robbery.”
He'd rebuilt the engine years ago, before I'd even met Hy. “You're never going to let me forget that comment, are you?”
“Nope. I'm guilt-tripping you into bringing it back to us.”
“So what's the damage this time?”
He wiped his hands on his coveralls, went to the computer, and started printing out my invoice. “My advice to you is to keep the car a long time, even do another rebuild if you've got to. It's damn near a classic.”
I eyed the MG thoughtfully. “I don't know, Bennie. When it starts to go again, a new car might be in order.”
Shock furrowed his chocolate-colored face. “No way!”
“Well, by then it might be time.” I took the sheet he ripped from the printer and scanned it. Shuddered dramatically.
“It's never time to get rid of a beautiful machine like that,” he insisted. “Besides, what would you buy to replace it? One of those nothing Japanese models that all look alike?”
“I haven't gotten that far in my thinking yet.” I handed him my American Express card—the only one I was able to use till the new Visa and MasterCard were issued; fortunately, I hadn't yet charged anything on it this year, so there wasn't a receipt bearing its number in my home-office desk.
Bennie slid the card through the machine. “You'd have to look pretty hard to come up with a car that can hold a candle to the MG. I don't know, though—how about a Porsche?”
“God, no! Rae calls them asshole-creating machines, and she ought to know. Both she and Ricky turn into maniacs behind the wheel of his.”
“Speaking of Rae, she hasn't brought the Ramblin’ Wreck in lately.” Rae's former car, an ancient Rambler American, was one of the few Detroit models Bennie would work on.
“The Wreck has gone to the big auto-salvage yard in the sky. She's driving a Miata now. And getting married.”
“Well, tell her congrats, and to skip the dealer servicing on the new car. Miatas and me get on just fine.” He frowned at the credit-card machine. “What the hell? Your card's been refused.”
“What? Why?”
“It's been canceled.”
Damn her! How had she managed that? Oh, right—the folder that had come when the new card was issued, bearing instructions about what to do if it was lost or stolen; that was in the desk at home.
“You got another card?” Bennie asked.
“No, I… lost my wallet, and I'm waiting for new ones. I'll write you a check.”
“Hey, don't bother. Just bring the new card in when it comes, and I'll run it through. And do me a favor? Keep the MG.”
Nell Loomis looked the same as the last time I'd seen her: close-cropped carrot-colored hair, outrageous green eye shadow, and ratty jeans and T-shirt with a rubber darkroom apron over them. At least that was my impression until I noticed she'd gotten her nose pierced a few times and had a small tattoo of a vulture on her right forearm.
She caught me looking at the vulture and said, “So I like them. They're very patient birds. D’ you want to come in or just stand there staring, McCone?”
Her disposition hadn't improved with time, but then, I hadn't expected it to.
She led me into her cluttered studio: a large white room with a long light table and a seating area in one corner. Light boxes and rolled-up backdrops and props for the magazine ads that she shot here lined the walls. This week, apparently, the subject was cat food, specifically a brand called Royal Repast.
“Fuckin’ critters,” Loomis said, motioning at the stacks of cans as we sat down on her shabby sofa.
“Cats?”
“Not all cats—I've got three at home myself—just Royal Repast's pampered darlings. Four of the most spoiled-rotten animals I've ever encountered—including humans. They don't
like
Royal Repast. They're junkies.”
“Junkies?”
“Catnip junkies. The food's gotta be sprinkled with the stuff before they'll nibble at it. And then they get so stoned they fall asleep real fast. It's taking an eternity for this shoot. So what the hell d’ you want after all this time? Information, I suppose.”
“Right.”
“You paying?”
“Of course.”
“How much?”
“Twenty.”
“Sixty.”
“Forty.”
“Done.”
“What d'you want to know?”
“The olive-drab door three to your right—who rents the place?”
Her face went very still. “What're you messing with, McCone?”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“I don't understand.”
“Smart woman like you? I read the papers. Don't think I haven't kept up with you.”
“Then you know I can't talk about my cases or clients. Who rents that place, Loomis?”
“… The guy's name is Sandy Coughlin, and he's into a lot of things.”
“Such as?”
“Things that kill people. Explosives, guns—you know.”
“Drugs?”
“Nope, Sandy's strictly a shoot-’em-up, blow-’em-up kind of guy.”
“How would somebody go about making a connection with him?”
“Come on, McCone! You know how to do that.”
“No, I meant how would the average person go about it?”
“Well, he wouldn't walk up and knock on that door. Coughlin's paranoid, and his … clients come recommended.”
“By … ?”
She examined her ragged fingernails for a moment. “This is all rumor, of course, but I've heard that he caters to militant factions.”
“Left or right?”
“Doesn't matter. He's what my dad used to call a shit-disturber. Likes to see people riled up and mean. That fire-bombing of the abortion clinic last month? They say the explosives came from Sandy. A couple of the Saturday night specials used to kill that Russian refugee family in the Richmond might've been his. And so it goes.”
“He makes a profit and foments divisiveness and hatred as a by-product.”
“You got it. Ol’ Sandy enjoys manipulating from behind the scenes and then watching innocent people get hurt or die.”
Oh, Ted, what's going on with you?
What?
S
ix addresses of women who had bought into Vintage Lofts and thus would have access to the premises. Three of them not home. When I'd dropped in on the others, in the guise of an insurance investigator, I'd found that none bore the slightest resemblance to me or to any of the descriptions of my impostor. Mick was working on getting street addresses for the ones with post office boxes, and I'd check out the others when time allowed, but I really didn't hold much hope for this line of investigation. In fact, I was beginning to suspect I'd again been made victim of a clever plan devised by someone who had figured out how my mind functioned.
Fruitless labor, but at least it had filled a few hours of my otherwise empty Saturday night. I'd run no surveillance on Ted, as Neal had told me they were staying in—something he didn't sound happy about. I had nothing going on socially; all my friends were either out of town or had plans that didn't include me. Hy hadn't called; it was as if he'd been swallowed up by the Argentinian jungle. Hell, I couldn't even fret about being spied on or having my home invaded by a crazy woman; RKI had discovered and removed bugs there—but not at the pier—and also changed the alarm system's security code.
Normally I'm not a person who feels at loose ends. I'm outgoing, but I also treasure my private time. I love to read, I am fond of music and films, and I'm a consummate putterer. Left to my own devices, I can amuse myself for days at a stretch. And I like being alone at home, wrapped in the illusion that it's the one place where nobody can get at me. But tonight… well, I was twitchy and bored.
I checked the clock on the VCR. Nearly midnight, so why wasn't I tired? I stared at the phone. Why didn't Hy call? True, I'd been unavailable much of the day, owing to a dead cellphone battery that was still recharging, but why hadn't he left messages on the home and office machines? When we were separated we tried to keep in touch as frequently as possible, and he'd have been sure to call when he got my message.
If
he got my message. Unless …
No, I wasn't going to go there. This was a routine fact-finding trip, not a crisis situation. Unless …
No, McCone. Get back to the problems you can—maybe— do something about.
I surveyed the scattered sheets of legal paper on which I'd been attempting to analyze both the problem with Ted and my problem with the impostor, and felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. I was too close to the Ted situation, too involved in my own. On Monday I'd turn them over to a fellow investigator whom I trusted—
The phone rang. Hy, at last! I snatched up the receiver.
“Shar?” Neal's voice, ragged and breathless.
“What? What is it?”
“We need you here. There's been a shooting—”
In the background Ted said something indistinguishable.
“Shooting? Is anybody hurt?”
“No, nothing like that. But I—”
Ted said, “Dammit, give me that phone!”
I asked, “Have you called the police?”
“That wasn't necessary, but—”
“Give it to me!”
There were sounds of a struggle, and the connection was severed.
No police cars in Plum Alley. No crowds on the sidewalk. Whatever had happened, it wasn't critical.
I ran along the sidewalk from where I'd wedged the car on Montgomery, nearly tripping over a low-slung bassett hound that a man was walking. After I let myself into the building with Neal's key, I took the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Bursting through the fire door on the third floor, I came face to face with Ted. His lips were bloodless, and his eyes glowed hot with rage.
“Go home, Shar,” he said. “You've got no business being here. You'll jeopardize everything.”
“Jeopardize what?
What?”
“Neal had no right to call you. Go home!”
Now Neal came out of the apartment, equally enraged. “I had every right to call her, you lunatic! Better Shar than the cops. You're damned lucky nobody phoned 911.”
A door was being unlocked down the hall—someone bothered by the commotion. Ted shoved Neal and me into the apartment and slammed its door.
“All right,” I said, “what's going on here?”
Ted turned, headed down the hallway. By the time Neal and I caught up, he was in the kitchen, pouring brandy into a snifter. Behind me, Neal said, “That's not the solution, Ted.”